


Private Lessons

by Nekositting



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Inspired by Music, Not Beta Read, One Shot, PWP without Porn, Teacher-Student Relationship, Tom is a little shit, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 14:58:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6570664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekositting/pseuds/Nekositting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Look at me,” he murmured, the command in his voice difficult for Hermione to ignore. But if there was one thing that Hermione was, it was stubborn. She stared at the tiniest crack on the adjacent wall, unwilling to give in. Why had she even agreed to tutor this kid?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the characters
> 
> So, I have no idea where this came from, but I want to blame the song "Dark Imagination" by Of Verona. It was amazing, and I could not resist writing this. I had been mulling something like this over for some time--especially, with reversing the ages and such so that it made the whole taking of power more interesting. I also wanted to write porn, so there is also that lol.
> 
> please leave some comments or kudos so I know how you all feel--if I should just stop altogether with these random one-shot ideas or not, I am a very needy writer >.>

“Can you please get out?” her brow was furrowed, a strange combination of exasperated and bemused at the sight before her. What the hell was Tom Riddle doing in her house? He was dressed impeccably—his dress shirt tucked nicely inside his black slacks, with the sleeves rolled up his elbows to expose muscled forearms. It was undeniable that the boy was attractive, almost sinfully so, but his personality left much to be desired. He was a right prat most of the time, driving Hermione up the wall whenever he found the opportunity during lessons.

It was almost remarkable that he was her student considering how often, and how fiercely, they bickered. Although, the bickering had lost some of its ferocity the past couple of weeks. It had at first left Hermione rather suspicious, but after having yet to experience the possible “catch” to this congeniality, she had decided to leave the matter alone. She was not going to reject the proverbial olive branch when it was presented to her.

“No, we need to have a chat,” he finally stated, the confidence with which he held himself in her living room making her jaw clench in annoyance. This was _her_ house, not his. She should be the one in control and at ease, not this brat. She did not bother to hide her scowl when the boy gestured for her to sit down on _her_ couch before conceding to the command. If only temporarily to sate the ever burning curiosity mingling with her annoyance. _‘He better have a damn good reason for breaking into my house at 1 in the morning.’_

“Alright, what is it? It’s rather late and unlike you, I do have work tomorrow in the morning, Mr. Riddle,” she stated, carefully watching the boy without masking just how _elated_ she was at having to see him. It was no secret that she did not like him—though that stemmed more from how unnerving it was to be around the boy than anything else. His personality was nasty, but it was not the _sole_ reason Hermione was eager for him to state his business and get out. At times, it almost seemed like he was trying to seduce her—and that thought was horrifying to her because she was not entirely unaffected. So it was already inappropriate that he was in her house to begin with, especially with it being 1 _in the morning._

Her question was met with long silence.

Hermione shifted on her couch when he continued to say nothing at all despite the impatient look quickly overshadowing any politeness she had. She was eyeing him like someone would look at a pest—an annoying pest that was taking his _sweet_ time to get to the point. She didn’t like it when he only continued to stare at her quietly with a strange gleam in his eyes. She was outright scowling now, feeling rather unsettled by the continued silence and the almost calculating quality to his appraisal of her. Was there something on her face?

She, in what she hoped went unnoticed by the boy, looked quickly at her attire to make sure that there was nothing amiss. She was still in her work clothes—a white oxford shirt and a black knee-length skirt—and she was definitely sure her hair was not unusual in its unruliness. She could never get the blasted thing to behave, the volume would always be a treading on the thin line between bush and curly, while also frizzing. There was nothing the boy had not seen after spending many weeks being privately tutored by her, but nevertheless, the look he was giving her made her strangely self-conscious and unsure of herself.

She was in her own bloody house sitting on her couch. She needed to keep it together, he was just a kid.

“Mr. Riddle, you do real-“

“Tom,” he interrupted her, breaking the silence that had earlier been so thick one could have cut it with a knife. She clenched her jaw then, her teeth grinding so hard in her mouth that she thought he might even be able to hear it. _‘This was getting bloody ridiculous_.’

“ **Tom _-_** _,”_ she finally spat out, her face screwing into a grimace that made it look as if she’d sucked on a lemon. “Could you please get to the point?” she hissed, her fingers picking at the edge of her skirt so that she wasn’t tempted to throttle the git.

“I have a question that I think you may be able to provide a sufficient answer for,” he finally states, his words careful despite the almost casual air he seems to hold himself. He seemed relaxed, and dare she say it, _comfortable_ standing in her living room. Like it was perfectly natural that he be there at all. She took a deep shuddering breath to sooth the anger that started to bubble inside her, before thinking carefully about how to respond. It seemed harmless enough, but when it came to Riddle, she prefers to deal with him with a certain level of precaution.

“And what would that question be?” she asks, watching the boy closely before he moves to sit beside her on the couch. He was closer than she was comfortable with, and Hermione made to shift away from him but felt his hand clasp onto her arm to stop her. She jumped in surprise at the contact, her gaze shifting away from his face to stare at his hand almost as if she could not believe that he actually dared _touch_ her. She was reluctant to look away from the hand on her arm, but forced herself to turn her attention back to his face.

It was entirely blank. She could not say it was surprising, but it was definitely unwelcome nevertheless. It was probably one of the most unsettling things about the boy, setting aside the fact that he was insincere most of the time, and enjoyed the discomfort of others—especially in _hers_ when things between them got a little too tense. It was a penchant for sadism that she had picked up rather unfortunately in one of her sessions with him, and she tried very hard to keep the thought out of her head so as not to compound the unease she already felt.

“Tom?” She was tentative this time, her voice sounding weaker than she intended when he had yet to remove his hand. “Let go,” she makes to yank her arm out of his hand, but his hand clenches tight against the skin, making it difficult for her to extricate herself from the situation. “You’re scaring me, what the hell is going on?” Panic manages to weave itself into her voice, and when she yanks harder against the tight grip, the blank expression on his face breaks.

A grin breaks out over sharp, white teeth. It is almost wolfish and predatory in appearance and Hermione, feeling alarms ringing like police sirens in her head, stands, forcing the hand completely away from hers with one final shove. The expression on his face does not waver as he closely follows Hermione’s movements with his eyes, and she does her best to repress the shudder of uneasiness that she feels building inside her. She was standing with her back against the wall, the door, annoyingly enough, on the other side of the room. “I think you should leave,” she managed to say, cradling the arm he grabbed protectively into her chest.

“No,” he purred, something dark swirling within his gaze that had Hermione backing further into the wall and desperately searching for anything to protect herself with. It was getting hard to breathe when he looked at her like a lamb ready to be slaughtered—it brought a rush of something dark and ugly inside her that she quickly shoved to the back of her mind. “You have not answered my question.”

“What bloody question! You think you can come here and terrorize me in my own home? Get the fuck out before I seriously throttle you,” she stalked towards the boy, her movements sporadic and fueled by anger. She was standing over where he sat on the catch, ignoring the amused look in his expression at the sight of her rage. She grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, and lifted him through sheer force of will until her face was imperceptibly close to his. She was staring into his darker eyes, watching the way the light made it easier to discern that they were actually a dark shade of brown rather than the black that many at first glance believed. It mattered little that in this position, _she_ was the one that had to look up rather than down on him.

“Riddle, I swear if yo-,” she never got to finish her tirade. He moved faster than she had anticipated, her anger morphing into surprise when one of his arms slipped to wrap around her waist tightly, trapping one of her arms to her side, while the other grabbed her wrist tightly between agile fingers. And then he was forcing her back, the suddenness making it difficult for her to catch her bearings before she was shoved against the wall directly across the couch. She squirmed and writhed, averting her eyes from the boy’s when it registered that it was just _too_ close.

“Look at me,” he murmured, the command in his voice difficult for Hermione to ignore. But if there was one thing that Hermione was, it was stubborn. She stared at the tiniest crack on the adjacent wall, unwilling to give in. Why had she even agreed to tutor this kid? She had already known that he didn’t need the help, but his mother was unwilling to take no for an answer. It was completely absurd, and it seems, that the true reason she was even hired in the first place was coming to light.

“I won’t repeat myself,” his voice taking on a sharp edge that she had never heard before. It was the deadliest thing she had ever heard, and it had Hermione jerking her head to look at him in such _surprise—_ a _child_ was capable of sounding that way? Though there was nothing readily discernible about his expression—the cruelty shuttered away completely by a blank mask. And it was perhaps the most frightening thing about the entire situation. He could hide away his true self so easily, and readily, and she had not even noticed that she was perhaps playing into his hand all those weeks before. Was the boy she bickered with the boy that stood before her now?

Was the boy she had snapped at to stop being a git the beautiful, yet cruel boy that had her pinned against the wall of her living room? She could not reconcile the two, the cogs in her brain trying to make sense of the conflicting identities she had seen. ‘ _Who was Tom Riddle?’_

“I have been very patient with you, Hermione-,” he spoke, his eyes glinting with something feral before quickly shuttering the emotion away as quickly as it came. “But it seems, that you are unwilling to acknowledge the _tension_ , you could say, between us,” her brow furrowed in confusion, her mouth opening to respond but closing immediately as the weight of his words sunk in. “You’ve forced my hand,” she was sputtering now, disbelieving that he could talk so casually about such affairs as if this were a perfectly normal conversation.

“You’re mad,” she was finally able to say, ignoring the amused look in his gaze. “I am your tutor, and nine years older than you! Look, as charming as you are, and I say this _loosely_ , I don— _what do you think you’re doing_!?” she exclaimed as his face pressed close to the curve of her neck, his hot breath unwittingly drawing shudders from her. “T-this is sexual harassment, I’ll tell someone what you’re doing,” she squeaked out, hating that he had gotten a reaction from her.

“No one would believe you,” he murmured into her neck, his lips smoothing across the skin almost reverently as Hermione tried to ignore the contact. She hated how readily her body wanted to melt into the touch, and how easily he could play her. “No one would think that innocent, and well-mannered, Tom Riddle would coerce his instructor into behaving so _inappropriately_ ,” he purred into her neck before sinking his teeth into the junction where her neck met her shoulder. She mewled, unable to stifle the sound as he continued to rain the skin with teasing touches that were meant to seduce rather than to cow her into submission—or at least, not at this particular moment. His penchant for control not something Hermione had missed in her earlier sessions with the boy as well. However, how could she have been so blind to believe that he was perfectly _harmless_?

“W-what do you want from me?” she hated the way she almost gasped the words out, feeling her head start to cloud from the delicious sensations and the fact, that as wrong as it was, she was attracted to the boy. She had been from the moment she had first started tutoring him—but was put off completely from the almost arrogant way he conducted himself. Then, there was also that penchant for making her uncomfortable and completely pushing the boundaries between tutor and student. She could hardly believe he was _only_ seventeen with the way he behaved—almost as if she were the child, not the adult woman that she was. It was, quite frankly, pissing her off. “I am not going to play these stupid games with you. You can tell your mother that I quit, I don’t have to accept th-.”

“But you are, you’ve always had your suspicions and yet you kept coming back when it was completely in your power not to,” he kissed his way up the column of her neck as he spoke, his lips making her flesh tingle in ways that she wish didn’t. _‘He is a child Hermione, no matter how mature and dark, he is a child!’_ She kept repeating endlessly in her head, but could not stifle the soft sound leaving her lips when his lips closed around her earlobe. “You _wanted_ to come back—there was something about me that you could not let go, and here you are-,” he whispered into her ear. “In my arms, and at my mercy,” the words made her stomach clench in not too entirely unpleasant ways, and she made to push him away—to try to squirm away so that she didn’t have to face her own attraction.

His body pressed flush against her own then, his lips not breaking contact from her ear as he did it. She could feel the firmness of his thighs against her own, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath he took, and the _warmth_ —it was like the sun was kissing every inch of her clothed form and she could not help but lean in to the contact. She was like a bird ensnared by the promises that only this warmth could grant—unable to flit away despite how predatory, and dangerous it all was. “ **Tom** , we can’t do this,” she was begging now, the fight sucked out of her as reality finally hit her. ‘ _He was actually doing this. This was not a part of her imagination.’_

 “Don’t do this,” her words were weak to her ears, and she was sure that she had not convinced him when one of his thighs slipped between her own shaky legs. She could not recall when her skirt had ridden up, but when she looked down, her face flushed numerous shades of scarlet. She drew in a sharp breath at just how close his knee was to the throbbing, to the clenching and unclenching muscles that _ached_ —choosing to ignore that her knickers were practically in full display. _‘You’re not a hormonal teenager, Granger! You’re a grown woman,’_ she shouted in her head to try to snap herself out of the stupor he’d put her in, but it was all in vain, when the knee pressed into her clothed cunt, and _rubbed,_ driving all coherent thought out of her.

She gasped, leaning her head back against the wall. She had lost complete control of her limbs, the pooling need between her legs rearing its ugly head. It _wanted_ , and she could not stop herself from pressing herself against that knee, and rubbing along with him. It was driving her mad, and at that moment, she couldn’t get herself to bloody care. “ _Oh_ ,” she moaned when he didn’t stop, his lips whispering dark and seductive things into her ears that had her flushing bright red in embarrassment.

“I can smell how wet you are,” and she could tell immediately that he wasn’t lying. She felt slick between her legs, and she burned to have the desire he had stoked quenched. She _needed_ him like a parched man needed a drink—and she fought to be released. Her fingers itched to card into his coiffed hair, to clench onto his shoulders and hold on for dear life—she needed to touch, but he would not allow it. His hold was as unforgiving as it was when he first started this game.

“Please,” it sounded foreign to her ears, the way the word was spoken with that breath-like quality. She didn’t sound at all like her cool, logical self—it didn’t sound like her mature and professional self either. She was a completely new creature from behind her own many facades, and the she could feel the way his lips turned into a pleased smirk. It would have angered her at any other moment, but not when he was teasing her so.

“Beg for it,” he purred, his voice sounding much rougher than it had earlier. It was not as smooth, or as collected as it once was—the guttural sound like the sandpaper quality of a cat’s tongue. It abrasive, hinting at the sadism she had only suspected of earlier in their interactions. She should have been frightened by the darkness—should have resisted more, fought more to prevent herself from giving in to the abyss, but she had already given in. She had just not realized it until now.

Even with his knee digging deliciously into her clothed mound, and even with his hot breath fanning against her ear, Hermione could not compel herself to beg. Her pride, even in her dazed state would not allow it. She wanted him, but she would not sacrifice her dignity for it. “No,” she hissed, her teeth catching onto her bottom lip to prevent a curse from rolling off her tongue when his knee grazed her clit at that particular instance. He laughed at her, his face finally moving away from her ear to look into her flushed face, a look of satisfaction readily apparent.

“Not yet,” he concedes.

And then his lips were on hers, the softness drawing a gasp of surprise that he readily took advantage of. It was wet, and warm, like dipping one’s fingers into a pot of melting chocolate—it was pure decadence, the taste addicting as she moaned into it. His lips moved with her own, coaxing and drawing her to respond, and she readily obeyed, if only to get _more._ She had spent countless nights imagining, along with countless nights feeling guilty at even thinking that way about her student—but nothing could come close to the reality. His tongue was teasing her plump bottom lip, and Hermione wanted to take that tongue into her mouth, and feel the same tingle inside. And faster than even he could expect, Hermione forced herself forward, taking control of the kiss by taking his tongue into her mouth and sucking.

He had frozen at that, but that did not stop her. She nipped at his tongue in a reprimanding way, her eyes opening—she wasn’t sure when she had closed them—to give him a challenging look. His eyes were glazed, a stormy look to them before they momentarily sobered at the sight of her challenge. He pushed her back against the wall, his body caging her in while his hold on her arms completely slackened to allow her to move freely.

Her hand was in his hair before she knew it, fingers digging into the strands and mussing the perfectly styled hair. His lips were on hers, his control completely lost as his mouth kissed hers brutally. His teeth were unforgiving, his tongue unrelenting—and she was sure he was drawing blood from the ferocity in which he kissed her. She brought her other hand to his shoulder to find balance, to prevent herself from the inevitable fall that would come when her legs failed her. She was drunk off the pleasure and the pain—the way his mouth completely overshadowed her defiance with his dominance. She wanted it all, and it was frightening that she could revel in the dark side of desire.

When she pulled away to breathe, he struck.

His hands—she wasn’t sure when—grabbed her by her thighs and hoisted her up, the force and speed with which he did it smashing her head against the wall. She groaned in pain, but that did not stop him from stepping between her legs, wrapping them around his waist so that his clothed cock could rub against her cunt. “ _Tom_ ,” she moaned out, a delicious combination of pain and pleasure apparent in her voice as she tried to make sense of the new position. Her vision was hazed, but there was no missing the heat in his dark brown eyes, the blown pupils, and the slight flush on his normally pale skin. He was beautiful—unlike anything she had ever laid her eyes on. There was an innocence to this beauty—to the graceful arch of his nose, the sharp cheekbones on either side of it, the rosy lips, and the intense, almond shaped eyes that were crafted onto this creature to deceive. It was a deceptive innocence, she knew—god, she knew that there was nothing but darkness in those eyes. But she could not stop herself now.

“You’re _mine_ ,” he hissed out, the words sounding more of a threat than romantic—but it did nothing to stifle the moan that left her lips when his fingers slipped under her knickers and touched her. He was thumbing her clit effortlessly, swirling around the nub as if he’d done it his entire life—and it made her wonder, how many countless woman he had seduced and debauched. It made her wonder how many women he had deceived with his innocent face, and then, bewitched with his bedroom eyes. It did not sicken her as it should have, feeling entirely too caught in his web. “ _Mine,_ Hermione,” and he was forcing his fingers inside her while mercilessly toying with her clit. She felt something coiling tight inside her—precariously standing on the edge of something she was all too familiar with.

He was looking at her face—drinking in the almost pained expressions on her face, and it made her flush all the harder at the turn of events. There was no way to hide herself now—no way to avoid the intense way that he gazed at her lips, watching as her teeth mercilessly abused her bottom lip, or the way her eyes would flutter shut, to only open again when he would pinch her clit slightly too hard. It was maddening to be under such close scrutiny—to feel like at any moment he was going to eat her.

When his fingers curled inside her, Hermione’s mouth gaped open in a silent scream—her eyes staring into his own as he curled, pushed, and teased that particular spot inside. She was close, she knew. And just when it would only take a little to push her over, his fingers were completely pulled away—his thumb touching but not moving at all to stimulate her clit. She squirmed, trying to coax his finger to just _touch her just a little_ but he refused. He watched her as if she were most interesting thing in the room—eyes glinting with that strange emotion she had seen earlier in the evening. “Beg,” he repeated, the thumb on her clit making her all too aware of how close she was to cumming. She wanted it, and it was almost pathetic how she writhed and squirmed to find some sort of relief—but her pride would not let her say the words. She _would not_.

However, hhen he made to pull away from her altogether though, that was when she panicked. “NO!” she shouted, clinging onto him so that he would not move away. She would die if he just left her like that—she doubted that another evening with her own hand would even satisfy the lust bubbling inside. She needed release, more than she could have expected. It was a bitter pill to swallow—to be defeated entirely by a boy, but she needed to come. “P-please Tom,” she started, her face looking pained at saying the words. “Do something, _please_ ,” it was entirely humiliating, and she could imagine that that was the reason why he made her do it.

He looked hungrily at her, a smirk twisting his lips into an all too cruel expression before the thumb at her clit started to rub teasing circles on the flesh. “How could I resist, when you beg so prettily?” and it was all the warning she received before he unzipped his trousers, and freed his length. She was frozen at the sight, cheeks flushed in embarrassment and shock that he could be packing something that large in his pants. _‘God, help me_ ,’ she managed to think before he was sinking into her, the fullness enough to make her toe’s curl from the pleasure and pain.

Her fingers were bone white from how hard she was gripping his shoulders—unwilling and unable to let go. He gave her only a moment of reprieve to adjust, allowing her to take shuddering breaths at the fullness, before he was forcing his way out and back inside her. The pace was brutal—Hermione’s head smacking against the hard wall as she tried to stifle the screams that wanted to fall from her lips. She was scratching at his clothed back, trying to find some sort of grounding despite the little control she had. His thumb was rubbing hard against her clit, bordering on painful, and Hermione felt a sob tumble out of her lips from the intensity of the affair—unable to quite comprehend that he could totally break her.

“Don’t you want to run away, _Hermione?”_ he punctuated each word with his thrusts, Hermione almost barely able to make out what it was he was saying from the continuous assault of pleasure on her senses. He was coaxing these dark things from inside her—unraveling her until there was nothing left to come undone. She was naked, far more naked than she could ever really be with her rumpled oxford, and her skirt hiked up to her waist. He hadn’t even taken off her shirt, but she felt like she was splayed open for all of him to see—her eyes caught in his as he drove himself inside her until she was itching for release. “Aren’t you afraid?” he continued, and she cried out when he found the sweet spot inside her and continued to hit it. “Don’t you want me to stop?” he didn’t slow at all—but she could tell that his breaths were coming faster and his cheeks were flushed with the obvious effort that it took him to move.

“ **Tom** ,” she cried out when he ripped her first orgasm out of her, his body stilling for a moment as her cunt clenched around his cock. His breath was coming harder than before, but there was no tell-tale sign that he had finished along with her. When his hands moved from the mess between her legs, she gave him a questioning look.

His eyes were glinting again, but before Hermione could truly gauge his intentions, his hands seized the lapels of her shirt at tore it open—buttons flying on the ground beneath them as she gaped at him in shock. “You didn’t think we were done, did you?” and she swallowed hard, futility ignoring the hardness still inside her. No, she definitely didn’t think this was over by a long shot.


End file.
